


ferritic

by plingo_kat



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Gen, Mentioned Eliza (Red Dead Redemption), Mentioned Mary Linton, One-sided Arthur Morgan/Dutch Van der Linde, One-sided Hosea Matthews/Arthur Morgan, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: “So,” Hosea said, watching the water run past. “Dutch, hm?”“Huh?” Arthur turned to look at him. “What about him?”
Relationships: Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	ferritic

**Author's Note:**

> me: so obviously arthur had a crush on dutch when he was younger  
> me: ...but... WHAT IF...  
> me: HE ALSO HAD A CRUSH ON HOSEA

Sometimes -- a lot of the time -- Arthur Morgan wondered what was wrong with him.

Admittedly there was a lot of wrong to choose from. He was a mean, ugly sonofabitch for one, and killed more than his share of folk for his own gain; he was bad at talking, the words tumbling around between his brain and his mouth to come out rough and blunt, sometimes not coming out at all; he got twitchy when he was around too many people or too much noise; and he didn’t... feel right. About romance.

Mary was the closest he got to normality. He reckoned he loved her, because she was beautiful and soft and made his stomach squirm whenever she slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow. She made him want to change, which nobody had done before but Dutch and Hosea, who were family and didn’t quite count. Before Mary he’d never thought about women, never cast a second look at the whores hanging out around saloon bars and street corners, never pulled them into his lap like Dutch or leaned in to murmur in their ears like Hosea, never disappeared with them for a couple of hours or a night to come back swaggering and loose-limbed and smug.

He’d been afraid, honestly, that he was doomed to be a sodomite. About two years after Dutch picked him up Arthur had gone on a hunting trip with Hosea that resulted in a big buck slung over the back of Arthur’s horse, Arthur being the one to kill it good and clean with a single shot to the head. As Arthur hauled it into camp over his shoulders Dutch came out to greet them with widespread arms and an equally wide grin, cupping the back of Arthur’s neck with one warm hand after he dropped the buck in the dirt.

“Beautiful job, my boy,” Dutch said, close enough Arthur could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath, and Arthur felt the words all the way down his spine.

Then Dutch let him go and strode over to Hosea, pulling him into a hug and patting him roughly on the back. Arthur knelt down by the deer to hide how weak his knees were, suddenly, and breathed in deep until the buzzing in his ears went away.

That was the start of his infatuation with Dutch. It was embarrassing when it wasn’t terrifying, the way Arthur’s tongue felt even more like lead in his mouth whenever Dutch called him over for a chat or a sermon, how Arthur found his eyes following the spread of Dutch’s fingers over his fine vest when he tugged it straight, the swell of Dutch’s lip when he clamped a cigar between his teeth. He started taking a lot of cold baths in the river. Even more when Dutch noticed and praised him for finally deciding that being clean was important to him, ruffling his hair and gripping his chin with gentle fingers.

“Look at this fine young man under all that dirt,” Dutch declared, tilting Arthur’s flaming face toward where Hosea lounged by their campfire flicking through a book.

“Dutch,” Arthur whined, pitching his voice so it didn’t break.

“Oh, leave the poor boy alone,” said Hosea without looking up. Arthur loved him in that moment beyond imagining. “You’re embarrassing him.”

“Well that is my _per_ -ogative as leader of this gang,” said Dutch, grandiose, loose after several shots of whisky and the successful stagecoach robbery earlier that day. “Am I not allowed to be proud?”

“You’re certainly allowed to be proud.” Hosea snapped his book shut. “But who decided you were the leader of this gang, exactly? We’re partners.”

“Aw, c’mon now, Hosea.” Dutch finally let go of Arthur’s chin. He immediately ducked his head and shrunk back into the shadows. “We’re called the Van der Linde gang, not the Matthews gang.”

“As I recall, the lawmen several towns back yelled _my_ name when they told us to surrender.”

It devolved into a squabble that ended with Dutch and Hosea leaned up against each other from shoulder to hip, drinking from the same bottle until the fire died down and it was time to stumble to their bedrolls. Arthur watched them with envious eyes as he nursed his own bottle of beer, and went to bed with the liquid sitting heavy in his gut.

The next morning he woke to Hosea’s boot tapping his shoulder.

“Up and at’em, Morgan,” he said. Arthur grunted. Hosea was one of the miraculous men who never seemed to get a hangover no matter how much he drank, some favor of biology or good judgement that protected him from a world of misery. Perhaps it was because he was a morning person.

 _Arthur_ certainly wasn’t immune. He’d taken three shots of whisky last night with Dutch before his two bottles of beer, and his eyes felt like shriveled raisins in his head. The late morning sunlight sliced into his brain like knives.

“What, ‘Sea.”

“It’s nearly noon, you layabout.” Hosea squatted and shoved a waterskin in Arthur’s face. “Drink that, you’re dehydrated. We’re going fishing.”

Arthur groaned. He hated fishing. It was boring and he was _bad_ at it. “Take Dutch.”

“Dutch is even worse off than you.” Arthur could hear the smirk in Hosea’s voice. “I’ve decided to let the poor man sleep it off. Besides, you and I have something to talk about.”

“Mm?” Arthur managed. He was unable to say anything more coherent because Hosea had uncorked the skin and was threatening to drown Arthur by pouring water down his throat. Arthur sat up in pure self-preservation, taking a swill and spitting to clear the sourness out of his mouth. “What?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re fishing.” Hosea stood and kicked Arthur’s ankles in his bedroll. “Come on. Maybe today is the day you’ll finally catch something edible.”

Arthur doubted it. But he heaved himself to his feet and dragged himself into the woods to piss, squinting at the dappled woodland brush so he didn’t fall and break his neck. Hosea handed him a weak, gritty cup of coffee when he returned and motioned him toward an only slightly stale bread roll toasted warm over the fire. Arthur wolfed it down to settle his stomach and went to saddle his Morgan. Lord, he hoped that he’d be able to steal another horse soon. The name jokes were old about two minutes after they started, and it’d been _weeks_.

An hour’s ride later found Arthur and Hosea standing at the waterline of a long, lazy patch of river with plenty of eddies that Hosea judged a good fishing spot. Arthur shifted from foot to foot, rolling his neck. The remains of his hangover lingered as a low throb at the base of his skull.

“So,” Hosea said, watching the water run past. “Dutch, hm?”

“Huh?” Arthur turned to look at him. “What about him?”

“He’s a charismatic man,” said Hosea.

Arthur frowned. Saying Dutch was charismatic was like saying water was wet. It was an indisputable fact. “Yeah...?”

“Charming,” Hosea continued. “Handsome.”

Oh. Oh, shit. Arthur’s grip tightened on his fishing rod. Nausea strangled his throat. He was suddenly aware that Hosea had his pair of engraved ivory revolvers in easy reach at his hips, and that Hosea was a faster draw than him.

“Sure,” he said, keeping his voice even. Nonchalant. One word answers. Maybe he could bluff this out. If not... Well. He had no idea what he’d do if Hosea decided to shoot him. Run? Throw his pole at him to get a chance at drawing his own gun, maybe, and use the standoff to back away. Hosea had never struck him as a man to hunt down anybody who hadn’t directly harmed him and his, and Arthur believed that Dutch wouldn’t be happy that Hosea killed Arthur even if Arthur was revealed to be a queer. He had the skills to make it on his own now, thanks in part to the man beside him. He’d live.

Probably.

“Unfortunately,” Hosea said, and all of Arthur’s muscles tensed. “He’s a bit of an oblivious fool. And he’s a friendly man, you know that.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hosea finally glanced over, his brown eyes sharp as a hawk’s talons. “Easy, Arthur, I didn’t bring you out here to kill you.”

“Uh.” Arthur lowered his shoulders from where they were hovering around his ears. “Sorry.”

“I’m just saying... Don’t get your hopes up about Dutch. He’s a fan of the ladies and nothing else, and he’s never going to stop being physical with his affection. It’s just the way he is.”

Arthur stared. “You know? ‘Bout my... ‘Bout me? And it don’t... bother you?”

“Oh, son.” Hosea laughed. “I had my own phase of being in love with Dutch van der Linde. I’m not that kind of hypocrite.”

 _“You?”_ Arthur sputtered. But yes, he could see it. For a while, even, when he just joined up and saw how easily affectionate Hosea and Dutch were, he’d thought them a pair of queers until they went into a town and the two men had each charmed a woman into bed. Ever since then he’d just accepted that Hosea and Dutch were... close. But not that close. “Did you _tell_ him?”

Another thought struck. “Don’t you like women?”

“I like both.” Hosea’s voice was low and amused. “And yes, I did tell him when we were both drunk one night. Dutch was kind enough to... well. Let me down gently, I suppose. Not that it stopped me from pining. In the end we had it out and I got it out of my system.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if that meant Hosea and Dutch had fought, or if they’d... if Hosea knew Dutch didn’t want men because of up close and personal experience. He sure knew which of those options would be featuring in his dreams that night, though. Shit.

“So.” Arthur fought with his clumsy tongue, too big in his mouth, feeling like the fish they were trying to catch. Hooked good. “You think I could. Like a woman?”

“No reason why you couldn’t,” Hosea said easily. “It depends on the person. If you like women, that’d make life simpler for you. If you don’t, well, you don’t, and neither Dutch or I will hold it against you.”

Arthur looked down at the ground. Blinked, eyes and nose itchy, and sniffed. “Thanks, Hosea.”

Hosea took a step sideways and pressed his arm against Arthur’s, who leaned into the silent comfort. Not for the first time did he think he was a lucky sumbitch to catch the eye of two outlaws as a feral kid stealing on the streets.

Hosea hooked two good-sized bass. Arthur fished up a dinky little pickerel that couldn’t be more than a mouthful which he threw back.

“Y’think you can help me?” Arthur asked abruptly when they were ready to saddle up again. “Keep it, y’know, from Dutch?”

“He won’t mind, really. I told you that.”

“Naw, not about... in general. I mean, me. And Dutch.”

“Oh, that? Dutch is a blind fool about male romantic signs, you don’t need to worry about that. Just don’t kiss him and he’ll never figure it out. But don’t think you can take advantage of it, neither, it wouldn’t be fair to him.” _I won’t let you be unfair to him,_ goes unsaid.

“Okay,” said Arthur, feeling like a weight had lifted off his lungs. “Okay. That’s good.”

*

It _was_ good. Arthur nursed his attraction to Dutch for longer than was wise because it felt safe -- Dutch was out of his reach and would never discover his feelings, giving Arthur leeway to wallow. Eventually the jackrabbits thumping in his chest died down to the flutter of moths when Dutch smiled at him, and then Arthur met Mary.

There was a stretch where Arthur figured he’d gotten over his problems with women. There were issues, sure, but they were all external: Mary’s family or Arthur’s status, the inclusion of John into the gang that meant another mouth to feed and a dumb-as-post kid at his heels all hours of the day. Not something inherent to Arthur’s being.

Journaling helped. Hosea gave him one on his birthday, a sturdy leather bound thing just like the books he bought for Dutch. It was the best gift he’d ever gotten in his life. Helped him _keep_ his life, really, although Arthur only realized that in hindsight. That was the way of things; Dutch taught him how to live, and Hosea taught him how to survive.

(Turned out that weren’t quite true, but it was too late for all of them by then.)

Arthur was coming up near on twenty-six when he realized he’d gone and fallen for Hosea. _Hosea_ , of all people. Arthur wanted to whack his head against a tree. Maybe that’d knock him straight.

It was different from how he felt about Dutch. Obviously different than Mary. He didn’t want to _touch_ Hosea, not really -- only the creases at the corners of his eyes when he laughed. He liked looking at Hosea, the lean lines of him, the way he tilted his head, how he crossed his ankle over his knee when he wanted to look at ease. Liked to draw him. Liked to bask in his voice when he told stories by the campfire. Wished he was better at lying so Hosea would try and teach him to con again, an endeavor that died a quick death when he was younger and it became clear he was awful at playing a part.

Two weeks after his revelation he got dead drunk in town and slept with Eliza. Finding out she was pregnant shocked him stone cold sober for a month. He weren’t ready for a kid, and for perhaps the first time considered that the way he was -- a loner, generally indifferent to laying with others, a man who liked to look but not touch -- might be a good thing.

The idea was only reinforced when he cantered up to two crosses in front of a busted open home.

“Hey, Arthur,” John’s hoarse voice said, all wobbly and wriggling through the haze of whisky. Arthur kept his eyes closed and grunted. “‘M real sorry.”

“Sh’tup,” said Arthur. He pushed his wrist over his eyes and pressed it against his forehead. Oh, the hangover tomorrow morning was gonna be fierce.

“Arthur,” said John, and a weight pushed up against his side.

“Go _’way_ ,” said Arthur. John didn’t listen, of course, crawling half over him to drape sharp elbows and knobby knees over Arthur’s body. “F’ckoff.”

“Hosea said to make sure you didn’t drink no more,” said John.

“F’ckim,” said Arthur.

John inched a little more onto Arthur, who wheezed. Damn, when had little Johnny Marston gotten so heavy?

“Arthur,” said John, who tried to make his name a warning but only managed a whine.

“Ffff- _ine_ ,” said Arthur, and let John take away the bottle he had clutched in his other hand. “Only ‘cause ‘s H’sea askin’.”

John said something else, but Arthur was already sinking down into blessed oblivion. The last thing he remembered was John’s arm wrapped tight around his waist.

*

_I have figured out that, like Hosea, I am partial to ~~women and men~~ both. That was not so hard, but I have never felt the urges that everyone else seems to unless I have known that person a long time or am powerful ~~friends~~ close with them._

_As it is easy to imagine, this has made romance quite difficult, being that we would move around a lot and the people I saw most were those I considered family. Dutch and Hosea are one thing, but if I find that I am developing ~~feel~~ a fondness for greasy little Johnny Marston I will throw myself off a bridge._

_[A sketch of John Marston snoring, long hair a shaded mess of pencil strokes.]_

Arthur rips out the journal page and feeds it to the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur here is some measure of *waves vaguely* demi or asexual. I originally also wanted to throw in some pained contemplation of how Arthur kept falling into feelings with what he considered his closest family, but decided that was a bit too much to fit in alongside his whole thing figuring out his sexuality in general.


End file.
